


Shields, Flashbacks, And Other Things

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Oak and Ivy [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Best Friends, Bigotry & Prejudice, Female Friendship, Gen, Gray Quarter, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Slice of Life, Theft, Windhelm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6110755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slice of the future Dragonborn's life in the Grey Quarter and her friendship with Luaffyn the bard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shields, Flashbacks, And Other Things

All right. Pull at the loose floorboard, shift it aside, poke around the gap - taking care not to grab at the thick, sticky and utterly gross cobwebs and not to brush against that crooked rusty nail - and place today's earnings with the rest of the stash. Done. Another day, another septim. Or rather, quite a bunch of septims. Not bad, not bad at all.   
  
Before putting the floorboard back in place, Illa surveyed her treasure trove with a satisfied grin. She was almost there. A few more good scores, a few more odd jobs, a few more sacbad days (that was an acronym she had invented for 'suck a crust of bread all day') - and she would be all set. She'd finally have enough coin to buy a set of armour and a decent blade - ooh, it was going to be such a precious sight, the smith's sour face...  the poor sod surely wouldn't stand a 'filthy grey-skin' toying around with his precious Nord steel! Then, she would pay a visit to old Nurelion - or rather, that cute assistant of his - and to Aval and all the others, and stack up on supplies. And, having stuffed the rest of the money into a coinpurse, for emergency spending, she shall away, ere break of day, or whatever they sang in that song. Away from Windhelm, away from the blighted Grey Quarter - into the great wide open. Where she would be free to do whatever she wanted. Where she would start a new life, a life without cold and hunger, and preferably full of meetings with staggeringly handsome men...  
  
The front door creaked open, letting in a gust of piercingly cold wind and scattering a handful of snow dust over the threshold. Illa cursed under her breath, with a small shudder, and lifted herself to her feet, wiping her grimy hands absent-mindedly on the knees of her tattered trousers - she had stopped bothering about cleaning the place ever since Father died, and the floor was now barely visible beneath a thick layer of dirt and congealed, rock-solid dust. But before she could cross the room and shut the door, the white breath of the wind suddenly rushed upwards, forming into a ghostly figure of a warrior with a tall mohawk.  
  
'What is it this time, Grandad?' Illa asked dully, rolling up her eyes and deliberately letting her arms droop down to show how tired she was of the apparition's visits. 'No, I haven't made up my mind about the stablemaster. I know he is married, but his wife does not seem to appreciate him all that much - and besides, he is an Altmer!' She cast aside her mask of weariness, her eyes flashing hungrily. 'I have never been with an Altmer before; it makes me all excited to go on the hunt... But on the other hand, I feel that the first time has to be very, very special... Don't know why...'  
  
'It is Sadri,' the ghost interrupted curtly, his disapproving glare almost turning Illa to ash. 'He is coming this way - I think he wants to talk about that ring you sold him. I told you this was a bad idea, didn't I?'  
  
'Yes, poor Revyn is the most law-abiding of all my fences,' she replied, with a small shrug, 'But I can't keep selling heaps of stuff only to Aval and Niranye - it would've drawn too much suspicion. Have to alternate once in a while'.  
  
'That was not what I meant!' the ghost exclaimed indignantly. 'Have you no conscience at all? Where is your sense of honour? Your Oreyn pride? Has our bloodline ended with your poor father?'  
  
She let out a loud snort, resting her hands on her hips. Seeing that she was unmoved by his frantic appeals, the spectre pursed his lips sulkily and sailed over to a dark corner, where he blended in with the remnants of rickety furniture, preparing to watch the consequences of his granddaughter's law-breaking.  
  
  
The half-open door now burst ajar, revealing a figure of a wild-haired Dunmeri man, shivering with cold, rubbing his hands violently against one another and stomping his feet to get the snow off his boots.  
  
'Ah, Revyn, good to see you!' Illa sang, gliding over to her guest and helping him extricate himself from the bulky, oversized coat his was wearing (which looked like a patchwork quilt with sleeves more than anything else). Her smile was far too broad and the pace of her speech far too fast; she was obviously nervous - the ghost acknowledged this with a smirk that screamed, 'Aha! No rest for the wicked!'.  
  
'Make yourself at home! I will find you something to sit on - I'm afraid there are no chairs or anything; Father broke the last stool when he threw it against the wall... I think he got rather upset when I did not show interest in hearing the history of Great House Redoran for the hundredth time... But I can pull a crate from over there...'  
  
Revyn checked the flow of Illa's speech by stretching out his hand and holding a small, intricately crafted ring up to her face; it glinted faintly in the dim light, its reflection dancing like a speck of gold in the crimson depths of the young woman's eyes.  
  
'I bought this ring from you this morning,' he said quietly. 'And now I have found out that Viola Giordano is missing one just like it!'  
  
'Fancy that, huh?' Illa shrugged, appearing to have regained some of her composure. In his dark corner, the ghost knitted his eyebrows.  
  
'You told me you found it!' Revyn was almost tearful. 'You were ready to swear upon your father's ashes that you found it!'  
  
'I did find it,' she smiled. 'You just never asked me where. There are many places where you can find things. In the gutter, under the bed, in someone's nightstand...'  
  
The hapless buyer let out a groan of utmost sorrow and suffering.  
  
'If she finds out, I'm ruined! Ruined!' he wailed. 'I will be branded as a thief and a smuggler forever! And what if - what if they run me out of town? Or send a couple of those thuggish brutes to ransack my store - to teach me a lesson? I will not live through this! I will drop down dead of humiliation at the Nords' feet!'  
  
For a few minutes, Illa took in the piteous spectacle before her, her sloping forehead furrowed in thought, her nostrils quivering slightly - in a way that bore a certain family resemblance to the ghost.  
  
Those last words had better not be intentional. Because that would have been low. Really low. Intentionally resurrecting the image of her father... Gaunt, deeply lined face; purple puffed up circles beneath the eyes; a hooked nose jutting forward like a bird's beak; greasy, unkempt greying hair and a thick red stubble... A tall, lanky figure, worn into a shadow, narrow as a blade, after years of surviving on stale bread and sujamma, swaying in front of a small group of jeering Nords; a hoarse voice cawing, crow-like, an angry reply to some particularly wounding insult, something about his wife and daughter...  
  
She had witnessed the whole scene, hiding in a blind side alley as she made her way stealthily from the market. She did not want him to see her buying food, because whenever he did, he always questioned where the money had come from, and either of the two possible replies - that she had stolen something and fenced it, or that she had defiled her Dunmer hands by working for humans - was sure to cause a fit of rage. She could hear almost every word from where she stood; yes, now she remembered it...  
  
'You grey-skin mated a slut and sired a slut, you did!' That was a loud bellow coming from one of those sandy-bearded n'wahs. 'Do you know how your kid spends the time while you are passed out drunk?'  
  
And then, her father's shriek, shattering the frozen stillness of the night.  
  
'Don't you dare speak of my daughter this way, you fetcher! Her little finger is worth more than all your Nord women put together! She is all I have left to love in this world, and I won't have you...'  
  
That was when he fell silent, suddenly out of breath. That was when he staggered forward, his bony fingers clawing at his chest... His final words. Before his heart made one last painful leap and stopped beating, before he thudded to the ground and his eyes grew glassy and unseeing, before the gentle puff of vapour from his hard, twisted lips dissolved into darkness, never to be joined by another... He said that he loved her. She had thought she would never hear those words, among all the violent rows and nostalgic ramblings about Resdayn of old... He said that he loved her - and she never got a chance to say that she loved him too, for all his fiery temper and helpless pride and drunken delirium... Gods help her, if Sadri had said what he just said to strike a cord within her, to play on her weakness and make her feel sorry for him - she would take out her trusty little self-crafted dagger and deprive him of what she appreciated so much in men!  
  
But no; it had not been intentional - she could see the mute terror in his eyes as he evidently realized what a tactless slip he had just made. Taking a deep breath to placate herself, she placed her hand under his chin and narrowed her eyes playfully.  
  
'Come now,' she said softly, the left corner of her mouth sliding upwards. 'You know I can't stand the sight of a grown mer whimpering like a human bairn. Let's do it this way - I will sneak into Viola's house; she is bound to be out at Candlehearth at this time, harping about the fellow who killed that Nord girl - the Butcher, she calls him... I will put the ring back - and when the old biddy comes back, she will suddenly realize that she has simply misplaced her precious little treasure, and no grey-skin thief is to blame'.  
  
'You would do this? For me?' Revyn asked, in a barely audible, trembling voice.   
  
She smiled generously and added, her tone deliberately business-like, 'I will keep the payment for the ring, of course. I went through a great deal of trouble to... find it in the first place - and I think I will charge extra for returning it, too. Got to value my own labour, you know'.  
  
'But... But...' Revyn opened and shut his mouth helplessly.  
  
Casting a mischievous look somewhere in the ghost's direction, Illa bent towards the flustered merchant till she could feel the tiny hairs on his lower face tickling her lips, and breathed,  
  
'That's my best deal, take it or leave it'.  
  
Then, she passed her fingers up and down his neck and caressed his mouth with a butterfly kiss - and, drawing back from him, cast a satisfied look at the dark blush that was spreading across his face. The deal had just been sealed.  
  
  
As she had figured, a gentle toss of a snowball into the window revealed that Viola Giordano was not at home. Stalking the regulars of Candlehearth Hall, no doubt, handing out those stupid leaflets about the killer striking again. Personally, Illa did not fear the so-called Butcher all too much. Even if he was going to return and claim another victim, she knew the twisting alleyways of the Windhelm slums like the back of her hand - she would like to see him chase her!   
  
Humming complacently to herself, Illa inserted a pick into the lock of Viola's front door. Ah, how she wished she could make copies of all the keys she needed using a wax imprint of the lock! But she had not reached that level of skill yet - for now, she had to make do with turning the lockpick and listening intently, waiting for the click...  
  
Well, that did not take too long. Though Viola had already discovered that her ring was missing, it apparently had not yet occurred to her to replace the lock. All for the better, then. Illa stepped inside and, casting a quick look around, headed towards the nearest chest. All she needed to do now was lift the lid and toss the ring on top of some stack of folded dresses - and waltz back towards the door. Child's play. And sweet Revyn was going to pay her for it, too. Perhaps she should do gigs like that more often...  
  
She was just about to leave when her eye was caught by a massive ornate silver candlestick standing on top of a small chest of drawers. The young rogue swallowed, scratching at her itching palm. That baby was going to fetch a nice price at Niranye's... Together with Revyn's reward, fencing the candlestick was sure to get her out of Windhelm. Illa held her breath, dazzled for a moment by colourful visions of the grand cities she was going to visit and the adventures she was going to have - and then crossed the room in one cat-like pounce and grabbed at the cold metal with her burning, trembling hands...  
  
'Halt! Hold it right there, you little grey-skin!'  
  
She should have concealed the candlestick somehow while exiting Viola's house. She should have been stealthier. But she was in too much of a hurry, her heart thumping excitedly, seeming almost too large to fit inside her chest... It shrank to its normal size - rather painfully - when she felt a heavy, fur-gloved hand on her shoulder and looked up to see one of those ridiculous grated guard helmets.  
  
'We have been onto you for a while, Oreyn - now we've finally caught you in the act! Standing in Viola Giordano's doorway, with obviously stolen property in your hands... Good thing that a jail cell has to be much prettier than the dirty rat hole you live in, huh?'  
  
Now she knew how her father must have felt before he died. The grumpy old ghost could nag at her all he wanted - she did have the same blood. And that blood was about to reach boiling point, no matter how hard she tried to cling on to her mask of calm mockery...   
  
She writhed in the guard's vice-like grasp and spat out, her eyes glowing a fierce red that almost drowned out her pupils,  
  
'Watch your tongue, n'wah!'  
  
The human snorted unpleasantly; her flesh crawled as she sensed him leering beneath his helmet.  
  
'Touchy-touchy! Boys, did you see her hiss when I brought up her miserable little hovel?'  
  
'Maybe she's hiding something in there she doesn't want us to see,' one of the other guards suggested. Young, by the sound of his voice - and smart, too... Probably handsome, in that rugged Nord way... If only he wasn't trying to arrest her... By Mephala, sometimes she didn't get what was going on in her own mind!  
  
  
They dragged her with them on their search - the guard that had first grabbed her tossed her over to a bulky giant of a fellow... Though, wait, when two muscular arms locked round her, lifting her in the air and making her gasp for breath, she thought she felt a pair of breasts somewhere beneath her back... In any case, her captor held on to her tighter than a toddler holds on to his favourite toy, and the rest of the bunch started whistling and hooting loudly whenever Illa attempted to eel herself free, her legs dangling pathetically in the air. Finally, along street after narrow street, they reached her house; the sturdy Nordic maiden remained positioned outside, her arms still clasped tight round the grey-skin captive, while her comrades burst through the creaky old door and took to overturning crates and Illa's other substitutes for furniture with a force that could have made her father jealous.  
  
Feeling numb and weak and helpless, Illa let her eyelids slide shut - and kept her eyes closed throughout the rest of the search... As the guards tore out her special floorboard and scooped up her secret stash, calling out to one another, their voices tainted with malicious laughter. As she was hauled over to the Jarl's palace, through the vast, cold halls and down a murky corridor towards the jail. As the cell door clanked shut and she was left alone in the darkness, the distant dripping of water shooting a wounding echo through her heart.  
  
It was over. Over. The money she had worked so hard to earn was gone. They had taken it all; she did not have to see it to know it... In a couple of months, they would let her 'walk free' - but she would never be free again. She had been almost there; she would never have the strength and determination to start all over... She would have to spend the rest of her days trapped in the accursed slums, perhaps falling incurably ill like her mother, or turning to drink like her father... Oh by the Three, why hadn't she used the money from her very first score, a few years ago, one the dawn of her womanhood?! She picked the house of clan Cruel-Sea clean as a bone - and what did she do with her earnings from the loot? Did she spend the gold from Niranye's generous mystery buyer on packing up supplies and heading out of Windhelm? No! She gave up her life-long dream of escaping the ghetto and seeing the world... all for the sake of Luaffyn! Because, what do you know, she had the same dream, and for some reason it had to come before Illa's!  
  
Oh, if only she could go back in time and alter the events of that night when she burst into her best friend's house, swaying and giddy and choking on her own laughter (Niranye's buyer had provided a bottle of Alto wine to celebrate a successful deal, and Illa had politely taken a couple of sips - but it was her own generosity that made her drunk, drunker than her father had ever been after a night of brooding over a sujamma bottle at the cornerclub). If only she could wipe clean the slate of the past, erasing Luaffyn's stunned face, her loosened hair falling down her shoulders, her hand clasping at the collar of her nightgown...  
  
'Illa? What happened?'  
  
'Sweetheart, you are going to the Bards' College!'  
  
If only she could grab her younger self by the shoulders and drag her away, away from Luaffyn's doorstep, before that other, insane, inebriated Illa could strangle her friend in a one-armed embrace, brandishing a fat coinpurse in her free hand...  
  
'It's all here, girl! The money for the road, and for lodging, and for tuition - and plenty more for pretty dresses! Gaaaawwds, I love you so much!'  
  
Why did she have to do it? So foolish, so utterly immature! She had caught a shooting star and instead of letting it shine for her and her alone, gave it away... So that another could have the life she wanted for herself. She would bet the shackles on her wrists that Luaffyn did not even remember her...  
  
  
***  
  
  
The last graduate had returned to his seat in the terrace, proudly carrying the parchment scroll with the seal of the College. It was time.   
  
The Headmaster stepped forward and, folding his arms on his chest, looked at the young bards fondly with his slightly narrowed golden eyes.  
  
'So,' he declared slowly, with a mischievous smile, 'Another year has gone by, and we are unleashing yet another bunch of lute-players on the unwary public'.  
  
A small snicker rippled through the rows of the youngsters; the Headmaster acknowledged it with a satisfied nod - and then, his expression grew more sombre.  
  
'We may have nothing more to teach you,' he went on, lowering his voice a little but still letting every single word ring with feeling. 'But this does not mean you have nothing more to learn. It is your sworn duty to keep searching for ways to perfect your art - so that every song you sing, every lay you compose, every show you stage will be remembered. Entertain, educate - and most importantly, do everything in your power to preserve and accumulate the precious bardic lore. You are the mirror in which generations to come will see our age. Make sure that the surface is smooth and clear'. Seeing that the graduates had fallen quiet, he passed his hand over his knotted beard and added, winking, 'Rather hypocritical of the unshaven old me to say this, isn't it?'  
  
Once again, his words were followed by a loud burst of laughter from the audience. When it died down, the Headmaster concluded with speech with a broad wave of his hand, 'Good luck on your travels - Divines bless you, and may the words of the poets keep you warm. Always'.  
  
The terrace erupted into a deafening triple cheer; the young bards leapt from their seats and locked each other in stifling embraces; someone even dared to drag the flustered Dean of History into the living, heaving ball of arms - and the cheeky little lad from the hamlet of Riverwood went as far as planting a swift peck on old Inge's cheek.  
  
The Headmaster lingered a few moments to take in the sight of the joyous chaos - and then turned towards the College. On his way back inside, he called out to one of the graduates, a young Dunmer woman, who, blushing and giggling, had just emerged from the clutches of her former classmates.  
  
'Luaffyn! A word in private?'  
  
She trotted after him obediently, and when the door closed behind them, shutting off the noise of the celebration, asked, shuffling her feet in evident apprehension,  
  
'Have I done something wrong, sir?'  
  
He raised his eyebrows, half-amused, half-exasperated.  
  
'What is it with you young ones that you think a conversation with a teacher automatically means reproach? I was just going to ask you, one last time,' he looked her intently in the eyes, 'If you are absolutely certain about returning to Windhelm. You have a lot of potential - with the proper recommendations, you could easily find a job here in the capital. I heard how your people are treated in Eastmarch - wouldn't it be better to..?'  
  
  
Luaffyn picked at a loose thread in her sleeve and said, quietly but firmly,  
  
'I have made up my mind, sir. A few years ago, joining the College seemed like... an escape from the life I had, and back then, I wouldn't have dreamt of setting foot in the Grey Quarter again. But now... It seems like the right thing to do. Maybe,' she glanced up at him, her red eyes rounded like a child's, 'Maybe my songs will help me make a difference. And besides...' the tips of her ears flushed a little. 'I have a debt to pay back - to a friend that helped me get the money to leave for Solitude and become a bard'.  
  
'Your... shield?' the Headmaster asked, with an understanding nod.  
  
Luaffyn half-opened her mouth in astonishment.  
  
'Oh, sir... You still remember?' she asked, clapping her hands against her cheeks.  
  
'I do,' he replied with a soft smile. 'Your very first essay. The Thing That Frightened Me. The rest of the class wrote about loud noises and draugr and school pranks - but you... Your piece really moved me. True, the whole tone is a bit rushed, and the ending could have been smoother...' he laughed at his own criticism. 'Don't mind that; old habit. It was still more than one could have expected from a first try; I know I try not to play favourites, and encourage other teachers to do the same - but that day, I just couldn't help myself...'  
  
Luaffyn cast down her eyes humbly, her mind flashing back to one of her first classes at the Bards College. The vast, sunlit room. Students hunching their backs over their desks, waiting for grades to be announced. And the Headmaster, his eyes alight, reading out the best essay from last night's creative writing test. Her essay.  
  
 _The Thing That Frightened Me_  
  
By Luaffyn  
  
To me, one of the most terrifying moments is seeing the person you have always looked up to for support and encouragement display signs of pain and weakness. A person like that is like a shield, always there to protect you, to keep all the bad things from reaching you and striking at your heart; and isn't a warrior suddenly gripped by fear when he goes into battle and realizes that there is a crack running down his shield's middle? I felt precisely the same way when I saw my best friend crying, for the first time in her life.  
  
We have known each other practically since birth - the Dunmer of Windhelm are quite close-knit, and the children spend most of their time side by side with the few playmates that they find. I am not going to write a huge complaint here - but I will stress that life was not easy for either of us. But where I whimpered and crept into a corner and curled into a ball feeling sorry for myself, my friend stood firm, brushing off every hardship that came our way with a smile and a cynical joke that made me blush. I knew I could always turn to her when I was feeling down, and she would always cheer me up; even if there was no silver lining, she would tell me to use my knack for story-telling and imagine it. She was my shield, really and truly - and when I saw the crack appear, I was horrorstruck.  
  
The two of us were barely out of our teens when my friend's father died, his heart having burst in the middle of an argument with the local Nords. The whole community gathered outside the city to burn his body and gather his ashes in an urn, as is the custom of our ancestors. That urn was then given to the daughter of the deceased so she could scatter his ashes. She chose to do it in the wilderness, taking an old sword that one of the men lent her and asking me to accompany her, for the path was a dangerous one. The elders tried to talk her out of it - it was unthinkable, letting two young women go out into the mountains at dusk - but my friend's face was so grim and fierce that they backed off. I myself was not frightened in the slightest; I knew she would always have my back, no matter what.  
  
We never said a word to each other throughout the journey; and the higher we climbed, our feet sinking into the soft, thick snow, the tighter my friend pursed her lips and the closer she drew the urn to her heart. I could guess what she was thinking; we had talked about it, in a whisper, watching the elders gather the ashes. She still found it hard to believe that the tiny pinch of grey dust inside the urn was her father, that his face, his hands, his whole body had been reduced to a handful of ash that the wind would carry away the moment she opened the lid... I wanted to comfort her, but I did not dare do it. She was so strong, I reasoned, she'd manage without me. She did not need my sympathy; at best, it would only irritate her.  
  
We stopped on a high ledge overlooking Windhelm. There was an aurora flaring up over our heads, and the wind was blowing east - to where our people's homeland lay. My friend's father had been born in the Imperial province, but he had spent many years in Morrowind later on in life and missed it greatly. So that was why when she opened the urn and scattered the ashes, she whispered, 'Come on now. Time to go back home'. And in the greenish light of the aurora, as the wind swept off the remains of my friend's father and, cradling them gently, carried them beyond the horizon, to Morrowind, I saw the first tear running down her cheek.  
  
It was followed by another, and many more; soon, my strong, courageous, lighthearted companion was on her knees in the snow, sobbing uncontrollably, like a child. I was petrified with fear and pain. My shield had cracked; the force that had carried us both through so much was ebbing away before my eyes - and I was at a loss what to do. That was the thing that frightened me; the thing that I will remember for the rest of my days.  
  
But after a while, like the sky glowed brighter and brighter with the Northern Lights, my heart glowed with a new feeling. She had been my shield for all these years; it was time I was hers. So I knelt down next to her and put my arms round her and wiped away her tears. She did not attempt to push me away as I had feared; instead, she snuggled closer, shivering slightly, and remained at my side till we felt warmer than in the middle of Skyrim summer. And I was not frightened any more - because even if shield is cracked, you have to do all you can to repair it.  
  
  
'I only wrote the truth, sir,' Luaffyn said at length. 'She was a wonderful friend; we were always there for one another...'  
  
'When you meet her again,' Viarmo smiled, opening the door and letting the young bard back out onto the terrace, 'Give her my regards. And if you should ever come to visit, be sure to bring her with you. I would love to meet her in person. I hope she has found strength to get over her father's death...'  
  
  
***  
  
Illa was brought back from her reverie by a loud metallic clamour.  
  
'Hey you, filth,' the jailor groused, stepping inside her cell, grabbing her by the collar and tossing her out like a young Alfiq. 'One of your grey-skin cronies has paid your fines; I want you out of my sight on the count of three!'  
  
When she was pushed out of the palace by the jailor and a couple of overzealously helpful guards, the midday winter sun blinded her and the sudden whiff of crisp air made her head swim. With all the staggering and eye-rubbing, she did not notice a cloaked figure that approached her and prodded her playfully in the ribs.  
  
'Hey, face,' said a cheerful voice from beneath the hood.  
  
'Hey, ugly,' Illa responded without thinking - and then froze with her mouth half-open. That was the greeting she and her best friend had used as teenagers.  
  
'Luaffyn?!' she choked, leaping at the figure and tearing off its hood. 'Azura's garters, you came back! Gods... How... What...'  
  
'I graduated,' Luaffyn smiled as she returned Illa's embrace. 'I will be working at Candlehearth Hall now - Edda won't be paying me for the first three months, though, because I borrowed money from her to cover all your fines. By the ancestors, girl, what have you been up to while I was gone?!'  
  
'You what?!' Illa cursed loudly in the Dunmeri language. 'Now I owe you!'  
  
'You don't owe me anything,' Luaffyn objected quietly. 'It was I that was repaying my debt. Now, tell me about yourself!'  
  
Illa made a vague gesture and thrust her arm under Luaffyn's.  
  
'There is nothing much to tell... You know, one hungry belly and a lot of mean Nords... What about you? Have you become an awesome bard or what?'  
  
Luaffyn giggled shyly.  
  
'Oh, I wouldn't say that... Though Master Viarmo seems to think highly of me...'  
  
'Master Viarmo, eh?' Illa echoed, her face alight with interest. 'One of your teachers? Is he young? Is he handsome? Did you...?'  
  
Luaffyn gave her a look of mock reproach.  
  
'Oh come now, not your usual pet subject!.. He is youngish, for an Altmer; and I don't know if he's handsome or not - not quite my type... But you would've liked him. If you still like your men tall and hairy, that is'.  
  
'Ooh, that I do!' Illa said, licking her lips. 'If the Nerevarine wasn't tall and hairy, I am gonna pout at the gods big time! So, this Viarmo fellow; tell me more about him...'  
  
Laughing and gossiping, they walked down the street to the cornerclub. And as they did, Illa suddenly realized that she no longer felt devastated over the loss of her stash. It was as if she was a warrior from one of her father's stories, and had lost a shield in battle - and found it again.


End file.
